The Poet and the Muse
by DeathlyIsabelle
Summary: This is not a Game of Thrones fan fic. It is a songfic, but Daenerys and Jon are the main characters. "Find the lady of the light Gone mad with the night that is how you reshape destiny."


The Poet and The Muse

 _There's an old town  
_

 _Wrought with mystery of Tom  
_

 _The poet and his muse  
_

 _And the magic lake  
_

 _Which gave a life to the_

 _Words the poet used_

It was a small town, really. Hidden deep within the forest, people didn't even know about it's existence. Every Easter, people of the village would abandon their daily activities and would tell each other stories. The most popular one was the one grandmother Aya would tell. It was the legend about the poet and his muse who lived in that great mansion, just above the lake, at the top of the cliff. It happened over 50 years ago and grandmother Aya was then a young girl. The poet, Tom, was a wealthy young man, honest and a dreamer. He would find wonder in the most peculiar things, and people thought him a little weird. But still he was loved by everyone in the village. His muse, his wife, Anastasia was a beautiful girl. Hair like silver, eyes as purple as the early morning sky, skin made of porcelain. She was a curious little thing, caught up in her own world of adventures and hidden treasures. She used to go down by the lake at dawn and dream of thing beyond. The dark ended lake surrounded by the old forest trees, sky painted in hundreds shades of purple, pink and yellow, and a young beauty, a nymph, alluring everything. It was easy to see the beauty, the inspiration in Toms poems.

 _Now the muse,_  
 _She was his happiness_  
 _And he rhymed about her grace_  
 _And told her stories of treasures_  
 _Deep beneath the blackened waves_

Tom and Anastasia lived happily and they were a great example of a perfect mirage. Even though they were in mirage, they would constantly flirt with one another, the chaise of getting the woman he loved, and the gentle courting, the small poems beneath her pillow, in her books, the rhymes about her beauty and grace, making sure they were never bored. Sometimes, on quiet nights, they would go out and watch the stars. Sometimes, Tom would told Anastasia stories about treasures, hidden deep beneath the lake. For him, world was an mystery, just waiting to be uncovered. He saw adventures everywhere, and seemed to have a story for everything. Anastasia would always listen to his stories, memorizing them, and living them in her minds eye.

 _'Till in the stillness of one dawn_

 _Still in it's mystic crown  
_

 _The muse she went down to the lake_

 _And in it waves she drowned_

But happily every after it was not, for the muse's curious nature made her go into the lake, feel the cold waves caress her skin, and like a possessive lover, hold her tight in the strong embrace, as punishment for trying to uncover its mysteries, never letting her go, as reward, giving her a cold kiss, invading her mouth, her whole being, and then taking her down, deep into its core, to be the greatest treasure of them all.

 _The poet came down to the lake_  
 _To call out to his dear_  
 _When there was no answer he was overcome_  
 _With fear_  
 _He searched in vain_  
 _For his treasure lost_  
 _And too soon the night would fall_  
 _And only his own echo would wail back_  
 _At his call_

Tom finished another poem of his dear, and went down to the lake to show it to her. It was a beautiful poem, where she was his angel, and he wanted to recitate it in her ear, as the sun shines on them. But he could not, for only his own echo answered his call. He searched in despair the whole town and forest, he searched the lake but the waves would push him out, jealously protecting what is theirs now.

 _And when he swore to bring back his love_  
 _By stories he'd create  
_

 _Nightmares shifted in their sleep_

 _In the darkness of the lake_

When he realized his wife to be gone, he swore to keep her alive by the stories he would write. But he couldn't for his nights were filled of terrors, the lake taking his wife over and over again, and the days were filled with agony, the pain of lost love, so that no story was good enough to bring back his muse. So he went to the seers, the witches and people of magic, and prayed on his knees for help. They all answered the same:

 _"And now to see your love set free_  
 _You'll need the witches cabin key_  
 _Find the lady of the light gone_  
 _Mad with the night_  
 _That's how you reshape destiny."_

And the poet heed their words, and went on his quest. He was gone for months, no one knew where he was, and what he had done, but when he came back, people could hardy believe that he's the same man. He looked old, he lost weight, and there was a certain kind of darkness and pain in his eyes that made you wanna cry.

 _In the dead of night_  
 _She came to him with darkness in her eyes_  
 _Wearing a mourning gown  
_

 _Sweet words as her disguise  
_

 _He took her in without a word_

 _For he saw his grave mistake  
_

 _And vowed them both to silence_

 _Deep beneath the lake_

Back at his home, Tom waited in fear of the things to come. When the clock showed midnight, a gentle knock was herd at his door. He jumped up and opened, expecting to see his love. And indeed, there she was, but it wasn't really her, for her eyes were black and endless, her gown black, her words deceiving, emotionless. When he tried to touch her she disappeared, only to reappear again, like an illusion, a ghost she is. Tom took her in in silence, for he realized his mistake. For a couple of moments he just looked at her, and then he started writing. He wrote frantically, like he was possessed, and when he was done, he exhaled. The book he wrote is know in the world as the saddest, darkest, yet the most beautiful one ever. It was divine. And when it was minutes before the down, he took Anastasia s hand and went down to the lake. They walked in together, and this time the lake embraced them both, their eternal love something to be cherished only by the worthy ones.

 _Now is it real or just a dream,_  
 _One mystery remains_  
 _For it is said on moonless nights_  
 _They may still haunt this place_

And grandmother Aya would they say, on the night when the moon is gone, she looks towards the lake and sees the two lovers gliding across the surface, white and light as the moon, they kiss and smile, and only when the sun comes up they go back in the waters, the lake now their shelter.


End file.
